Echo Lexx
Appearance I'm big. Really big. I don't mean fat. Nobody in my District is fat. I'm just tall. Really tall. But nobody in my District is tall. Every time I walk down the streets of District Eleven, I see sunken in faces and hollow eyes. Lifeless. Without hope. The poverty and the Games do this too them. The reality of their situation. But I'm the opposite. I've come back from the Games that have torn families apart and turned friends into enemies. My eyes, my big brown eyes, they're life. I have hope. I don't live with the Games hovering over my head, Maybe it's because my house is in a little circle surrounded by flowers and happiness, but maybe it's my mindset. Who knows. I'm just different. I have hope. I'm one of the only people in my District who can afford nice clothes. I used to despise them, for they reek of the Capitol's riches, but I've grown used to them. The Capitol's hasn't been able to take my deep olive skin, though. That stays with you for life. My light brown hair seems to shine in the sun. It's strange. So unlike the norm in my lifeless District. I like to keep it at a medium length so that it covers my forehead. This keeps the sun from baking my face. I no longer work in the orchards, but there are some habits you just can't break. Background It's the day of the reaping. I'm here with Tycho and Aero, my older brother and sister, and my parents. They're reaping veterans. They've taken out multiple tesserae. But my District is gigantic. There's no way their names could be drawn. You'd think that I'd be worried about myself, but I'm not. Aero wouldn't let me take out even a single tessera. There is only one slip of paper in the gigantic boy's reaping ball with the name Echo Lexx on it. I'm twelve. There's no way my name could be drawn. So I line up with the other twelve-year-olds. I'm wearing Tycho's old blue button-down shirt. It looks nice, even in the dim atmosphere of the reaping. I stare up at the stage as the mayor makes his speech. The District representative walks up, and I loose all worry. She's reaching for the girl's slip. She says a name, but I don't even hear her. It's not Aero. Everything is okay. I'm not even thinking about the family who was just torn apart. About the depressed mother who watch her child die. About the father who will drink away his sadness. But she's already moving on to the boys. There's no time to mourn at the reaping. Her hands move around, trying to catch one of the fluttering slips. Everything is in slow motion. Not Tycho. Please, not Tycho. And it's not Tycho. I smile. I don't even recognize the name in my relief. But everyone is staring at me with strange eyes, like they expect me to do something. And that's when I hear the echo. The echo of the Capitol representative whom I would grow to hate And that tiny, simple sound spoke a name. "Echo Lexx!" I'm in the training center, surrounded by the children who will kill me. They're strong. I'm not. No twelve-year-old survives the Hunger Games. Especially not one from District Eleven. I guess that during the reaping and in the train and at the opening ceremonies I just expected I'd survive somehow. But I know, now that I can see the people who I will try to kill. And will be trying to kill me. I'm in a hovercraft. It's fancy, with tiny little towels folded into pretty shapes and a comfy couch for me to rest. It's too bad, really. I'm not in a state to enjoy it. What's the point in towel animals and pretty sofas when you're about to go into an arena that will be you're tomb? What's the point if, in a few weeks, I won't even be alive to remember it? I contemplate this as the hovercraft gets closer to the arena. It's now landed. A tracker has been placed into my arm. I'm saying goodbye to my stylist. I'm on a platform, going up, up. up. And it's bright. Oh, so bright. I squint, but the countdown has already started. 50, 40, 30, 20, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5... 4...... 3...... 2..........1....................... 0. I jump off without even thinking, and run. It's my second day in this dreaded arena. The grace of God alone has kept me alive. So many of the others aren't. There's fourteen of us left now. My District parter has laready died. Quinn, her name was. I didn't know her, but her death still struck me like a knife. I think that was when the reality really set in. I can remember her smiling face, just yesterday before we entered our seperate hovercrafts. And now she's back in District Eleven, buried inside a miniature coffin. She was only fifteen. I didn't watch her die. Well, not her whole death. I couldn't bear to watch all of it. I was at the cornucopia, where I managed to collect a pack and a small knife. I was about to run into the nearby woods when I heard a familiar scream. The female career from District 1, Shea, as I would later learn, had her by the hair. It was quick. The knife struck her in the heart. Shea didn't even bother to take it out; she'd get one from another career. Quinn was left on the ground, bleeding and helpless. I rushed out to get her. Maybe she could survive. But she had already lost a lot of blood. Death was imminent. I couldn't look. It was too much. I bent down to look at the wound. I pulled the knife out. Somehow, in some way, her death would mean something. The pain is everywhere. Covering my mind, blurring my senses. It's dark, and it hurts. That's all I can tell about my surroundings. I look down towards the source of he pain. I can see 2 brown eyes staring back at me. They have a slight animalistic look to them. And then it clicks. I've seen one once before. It somehow got past the gate and into the orchards. I remember looking into the large, brown eyes of a bear before it was slaughtered and given out for food. This creature below me is of the same species. But it's not the same. Nothing in the arena is the same. All of the poisonous animals that roam through these high grasses are Capitol-made. You can tell by their unnatural size and that strange way they seem to be able to sniff out weakness as if it were a pleasant flower arrangement. They're strong. Much stronger than me. And this one is biting down on the flesh of my leg. Hard. But I have something that these Capitol-creatures don't: instinct. I grab the knife from my pack, still dirtied with the blood of Quinn's dying moment. I don't notice this though, just the pain. I have to stop this pain. So I jab the knife into the bear's neck. It falls almost instantly to the ground. I have to leave. The sound of it's descent will bring careers like flies to a street lamp. I've been in the arena for almost a full three days. The anthem begins, and then the faces of my dead competitors light the sky. Only three. That's all that died today. Ten were killed on the first, one on the second, and now three on the third. There are ten of us left. And then it hits me. All of the weaker tributes have been weeded out. I should be long dead, just like Quinn inside of her tiny coffin. Whatever has been keeping me alive should be fleeting right about now. And strangely, I've accepted it. I didn't think I would. But strangely, I'm okay with the fact that I'm going to die. Most likely tomorrow. Please, tomorrow. I don't want to be in this dirty arena for another minute. It's almost dinnertime. This is the first time since the start of the Games when I've grown hungry. Coming from District Eleven, I was raised to be hungry. I could go a week without food of you made me. But these are the Hunger Games. Just staying alive has made me tired. I've been too caught up with saving myself to even think of my stomach. But I'm safe now, and my stomach is calling. God, this needs to stop. If anybody is even remotely close to me, they'll know of my presence. So I leave my precious tree. As soon as I hit the ground, I know something isn't right. I feel the aura of another tribute near me. But it's not just one. It's a whole pack. I see Shea, but she doesn't see me. And I begin to run. Right as my feet move the leaves below me, the careers catch on. And they're after me. God, this was a bad idea. I should have just stayed in my tree and waited for them to pass. I grew up in District Eleven, but the careers have been training their whole lives for this moment. In just a few seconds I'm on the ground with a 150-pound career on my back. This is it. This is my time to die. But it isn't. A it turns out, the whole arena is filled with poisonous things. It ranges from the plants, to the deadly animals, and even to deadly plants. The career pack needs my orchard knowledge to save themselves. So I help them. I accepted my death, but that doesn't make me suicidal. I still have common sense and my instincts. I put on a happy face for the careers. In turn, I even learn a bit about how to survive. I can't stay here forever. It's the sixth day in the arena. I've been with the careers for two days now. They're beginning to catch on to what is okay to eat. They won't need me soon. And there's only eight of us left. It's nearing time for the career pack of four to split. They might as well take me down while they're at it. I know this from watching years of Hunger Games. The helpless little tribute the career pack takes on always winds up dying at they're hand eventually. All the careers do is extend their expiration date. If there's a time to kill me, it'd be now. I'm not tied up in ropes. The careers know that I'd be caught in a heartbeat, especially with that leg of mine from the bear. But I'm smart. That's nothing the careers can boast about themselves. Two of the four are off making a sharp needle out of wood, leaving the other two to watch over me. But it's only a loose eye they keep. It's a good a time as any. I just need something to divert they're attention and grab my weapon. I try to turn my adrenaline-filled voice into something of a desperate cry. "Uh... I really have to, uh.. pee." The careers give me a blank stare, and then chuckle. "Yeah, sure kid. do whatever you need." It's almost laughable how stupid these careers are. I don't really have to pee. This is what's called a diversion. I walk over to the tree with my pack. Nobody is giving me enough attention to realize where I am. I open the zipper as quiet as I can and grab my water bottle. I pour a bit of it out slowly, to give off the sound of urination. This also blocks the noise of my knife being taken from my pack. I don't waste a single drop of water. I quietly put the lid back on, and jump up onto the limb above me. I can move from tree to tree without making a sound. This I've learned from my years in the orchards. I angle myself above the two chattery careers and gather a loose limb from beside my shoulder. Before they could realize what's happening, my knife and limb have entered their bodies. I've been in the arena for a full week now. There are five of us left. Shea and her career partner, the male from District Four, are still alive though. It's just them, me, the girl from six, and the boy from eight. There's not much room in the arena left now, even though there are less tributes. The arena seems to be closing in on us in all of it's size. Today has been nice, though. The anthem an hour ago was followed by no pictures. Let's just hope it stays this way. It's my ninth day in the arena. I'm inching quietly toward the stream to fill my water bottle with it's cool contents. Just as I leave the cover of the tall grass, I see the body. It's the boy from District Eight, here for the same reason as me. I must have made some kind of noise, because he turns around to stare at me. In an instant, his hands reach beside him to a bow and arrow. It was aimed for my throat, but I managed to move enough to where it entered only the baked flesh of my shoulders. I can smell the blood draining steadily from this wound. I have no time to pull out the bandages I have in my pack. The adrenaline is keeping the pain down. This clears my head enough to let me think. What's the best option? I only have my knife and the branch I got from the career base. There were a few nights when Tycho took me to an abandoned storage shed in the east end of the District. There were teenagers that I'd never seen before from all across the District there. They practiced fighting and using weapons while some simply talked. I mostly just watched Tycho and his friends, but the group let me practice with the knives occasionally. I didn't know at the time that this would end up saving my life in the arena. I don't have enough time to reach in y pack and pull out my knife. That was stupid of me. All I have at the ready is my branch. I guess I'll just have to make the best of it. Everything seems to be going in slow motion. I hit the ground from the pain in my shoulder. My hand reaches towards the pack beside me as this unfamiliar boy loads an arrow aimed to kill. I grab the branch, trying not to let it crumple in my grip. I aim it at the boy, sharp side forward. His arrow and my branch launch at practically the same time. I move to the right, and he moves to the left. My hand manages to block the arrow, but my branch has gone straight through his midsection. You'd think that a person would care about an arrow going straight through the middle of their left hand. Well, I don't. That is unimportant right now. Insignificant. I just need to kill this enemy. I need safety. Luckily, my branch knocked him to the ground. I crawl as quickly as I can, leaving a sickening trail of blood from my shoulder and hand behind. I look straight in his eyes as I take out my knife and drop it right into his chest. I can't look at him. I can't stare into the eyes of the innocent child I killed. It hasn't hit me yet. I murdered someone. My own two hands were capable of ending his life. But these are the Hunger Games. The cannon has now fired. I collect my pack, as well as the knife, and rise slowly to my feet. I limp over to the stream, my eyes wide with shock. Shock of what I did to a stranger. It's day eleven of the 142nd Hunger Games. There are 4 tributes left. I, a twelve-year-old from District Eleven, am one of them. It's strange. It's been two daysw since the death of the unknown boy from District eight. I've been resting for most of it, but I've had a chance to think in these past few hours. There are only four left. Maybe I have a chance to win. But then my rational mind kicks in. There's no way I'' could survive the ''Hunger Games. The very thought is impossible. I guess I just grew up in a District that never has victors. There's only been one since Rue. But maybe I could do it. My leg still hurts, my shoulder aches and my hand is heavily bandaged, but maybe I could do it. I guess my mentor is having the same idea, because this is the first time I've seen a silver parachute float down right next to me. The contents of my gift is small. There is only some healing medication and a small loaf of bread. I go for the medication right away. It helps the pain in a few heartbeats. My hands then reach for the bread. I rip it in half. One for the pack and one for my mouth. It's amazing what a gift can do for morale though. My spirits have instantly been lifted by a bit of medication and some tasteless bread. It's still a big moment, though. It's not filled with action of sorrow, but it's the first time since the start of the Games that I've allowed myself hope. I decide that the perfect way to celebrate is a sip of water to wash the bread down with. There's only one problem. When I reach for my water bottle, I find an empty space instead. As it turns out, the water disappeared from the arena just a few minutes after dark two nights ago. All of the tributes are thirsty. Nothing must have happened since the death of the District eight boy, because this is the gamemaker's way of getting a move on with the Games. So, I know that my water bottle has been stolen. That is for sure. That means that someone is close by. Someone smart, by the looks of it. They have to be, to sneak up into my tree and steal my''water. So, I just have to beat them at their own game. I drop silently to the ground. If you were to enter this arena, you would see nothing abnormal with where I'm standing. But I'm a very observant person. I can remember what this forest looked like when I dragged myself up after the kill at the stream. These leaves are in a different pattern. There's no wind in this arena. The animals don't come around here, from what I've gathered. That means tributes. They're camp is nearby. It was obvious after a few moments of observation. I open my pack while I'm far away and take out my knife. I slowly inch closer, not letting a single leaf rustle under my feet. It's not long before I'm hiding behind a tree just a few feet from them. I turn my head around, not knowing what to expect. They're asleep, thank God. I look over to the side, and I see a pair of blue eyes watching me. I remember these clearly. This is the girl from District 6. The two people who's camp we're around are the last two careers of the 142nd Hunger Games. The gamemakers have affectively drawn together all of the remaining tributes of the Hunger Games. She makes the first move. Her knife is aimed at my chest, but I dodge it easily. The blade smack into the tree that was behind me just a few moments ago. This is enough to wake up the careers from their light sleep. I try to move quickly and aim an arrow at the careers before they realize what's happening, but I've never used one of these strange weapons before. My arrow falls laughably short of my target. They're on us in a second though. The male grabs me, and Shea gets the girl from District 6. The careers are fast, but again, they're stupid. I took my knife out before I even approached the career base. I stick this as hard as I can behind me, and my hand fills with blood. The tight grip on my body loosens. I spin around quickly in a position that allows me to see every tribute. The male career is holding his chest tight, but a bloody red stain has already begun to form on the area surrounding the wound. I don't waste a second. I go straight for the throat. The career drops to the ground. The other two tributes don't even notice in their struggle. I realize now that I want to kill Shae. I want to make her pay for killing Quinn. I throw the knife straight at her heart. She moves at the last second, and my knife goes right into the chest of the girl from District Six. There are two tributes left. Me and Shae. There was a moment after the girl died when we just stared at each other and caught our breath. She slowly picks up my knife, then she starts running at me with all of her speed, an expression of hatred on her face. The realization finally struck her that her fellow career was now dead. And she was mad. But she lacks a weapon. This doesn't seem to deter her in the slightest. I back up quickly, but she's much faster. In a few seconds she has me pinned on the ground. I can feel the sharp blade of my own weapon go into my back. I fight through the pain and grab the knife from the blade. I twist it around while still lying face down in the dirt and push it up as hard as I can. My attack shocks Shae enough to where I can flip her over. I stare into her eyes. The eyes that killed Quinn. We both pause for a moment, taking in our surroundings. I have the knife poised above her dramatically, like a free fall ready to plummet. But I stop. I look into Shae's eyes. The eyes of a killer. And I just can't. '"You know, I didn't want to kill anyone. I just thought that I would die. I never thought of myself as someone who could kill. T=Even the thought of killing disgusts me... But there's so many things I've done here in this arena that disgust me. And you... You disgust me."' In a way, I think I might be trying to talk my way into killing her. Into ending her life to keep myself alive. '"Did you know that when I was younger, I wanted to help people? I wanted to be a doctor. There aren't many doctors in District Eleven. We need one.... And, you've killed a lot of people. You've spent you're whole life training to kill people... What kind of life is that! What are you going to do when you get home!"' Shae is just staring at me. Too stunned to move. But I don't care. '"You see, I'm going to use my money to help people. People who deserve it. People... People unlike you... I went into the arena not wanting to kill anyone. But it's either you or me. And I have the knife. And what are you going to do? Me, I have dreams. I want to help. People like you... I don't want people like you in this world."' The knife comes down hard into her stomach. She gasps, her eyes still open unnaturally large. But she's not dead yet. And I ''have to kill her. I need to kill her. "To me, my life is more important than yours. And the people I'm going to help? They're more important!" My knife comes down again. I raise it up and down. Up and down. Every time making a bit of air leave her body. And I'm still convincing myself, even after the enemy is lying half-dead in a pool of her own blood. Up. "They're. Down. "More." Up'"Important!"' Down. I repeat these words in a little mantra, each one accompanying a stab and the sickening sound of ripping flesh. The cannon has already fired, but I'm still leaning over her with my knife. The same knife that she used to kill Quinn, but was too lazy to take out of her dead body. Has justice been served? No. It hasn't. I'm not really mad at Shae. I'm mad at the Capitol for throwing me in an arena and making me kill. I'm mad at the Capitol. Not Shae. But it doesn't matter. Because I've won. I've won the Hunger Games against all odds. It all passes in a blur. I'm in the hovercraft, then in the hospital, then watching the recap video, then having an interview, then finally back in my hometown. District Eleven. Strangely enough, the Games haven't taken my hope like so many of the other victors. I've come back, if it's even possible, with even more hope. I, a twelve-year-old from District Eleven, won the 142nd Hunger Games. And I, a survivor, will help tear the Capitol down. ------------------------ It's now four years since my name was called at the reaping. Life is different. The people I pass on the streets of District Eleven don't look at m the same. They're skeptical of me, almost as if I'm a Capitol citizen. But Im not. I went to he arena and I cam back alive. Shouldn't that make me a hero? But it hasn't. People watched me everywhere I go. I haven't been able to shake the feeling since the Hunger Games. In the arena, there were cameras. Back in the District I have everyone's eyes upon my every move. It's hard just to get a little peace. -trains-painting-the Hunger Games-tributes I have to mentor-bears-knives I'm the same exact person that went into the 142nd Hunger Games. But there are changes. I still have the nightmares, for instance. I woke up in a panic a few nights ago because I dreamt that a bear was attacking me. I had a dream just last night that I was pushing my knife deeper and deeper into Quinn's flesh, unable to stop, yet knowing she'd die. My head is no longer a safe haven. Instead, it's a constant nightmare in which I have to relive the horrors of my past. But I get by. I survived the Hunger Games. I can survive this. But I swear to you, the Capitol will fall. Likes *''fruit'' *''the orchards'' *''classical music'' *''people'' *''staring the sky'' *''trees'' *''gardens'' *''Capitol food'' Dislikes *''trains'' *''painting'' *''the Hunger Games'' *''tributes I have to mentor'' *''bears'' *''knives''